Read Online Infernal Magic: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Demons of Fire and Night Book 1) by C.N. Crawford - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: C.N. Crawford
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dollars a year, or about four million pounds. Give or take.” He dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin.
She gaped at him. This must be a dream. There was no way she could be making that much money. “Six million dollars a year,” she repeated. The amount was so far out of her frame of reference that it almost had no meaning. “What would I do with six million dollars a year?”
His cheek dimpled as he flashed a smile. “Oh, I’m sure you could find a worthy anti-gentrification cause to fund.”
“Uh-huh.” Definitely better than working for Rufus. She took a long sip of her red wine. She had no idea what kind it was, since Rufus’s club never got any more specific than red or white . “So why was this place empty? Who used to live here?”
“Another hellhound. But he’s moved on to other things.”
“And he has a scar. Just like ours?”
“Exactly.”
“How did you get yours?”
He reached down, twisting a silver cufflink. For the first time she saw a hint of vulnerability, when he didn’t meet her eyes. She liked this side of him better. He swallowed, still examining his cufflinks. “Everyone has their stories.”
Wow. That was amazingly…vague. “Right, but what is your—”
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Reaching under the table, he lifted up a silver bucket that held champagne and crystal flutes. He looked at her again. “It is your eighteenth birthday.”
Chapter 11
S he sniffed the champagne , waiting until Kester took a sip of his before she put the glass to her lips, just in case it was poisoned. It tasted fruity and crisp, like fall apples.
“This is delicious,” she said.
“It’s a 1928 Krug. One of my favorite vintages. I keep a few bottles around for special occasions.”
“Champagne from the ’20s. This glass probably cost more than my annual wages,” she mused.
“Things have changed for you.” He stood, a champagne flute in one hand and the bottle in the other. “Shall we see the rest of the apartment?”
“There’s more?”
“There’s the second floor.” He stepped out the door.
She rose, gripping her champagne as she followed him into a large foyer with a marble staircase. He pointed to a set of double doors. “The elevator, which should satisfy your paranoid tendencies in case you need to make a fast escape.” He flicked a wall switch. Above, a chandelier sparkled with a hundred tiny lights. “The bedrooms are on the upper level.”
As she climbed the stairs with him, her shoulders tensed. Maybe magic was real, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a pervert.
She glanced at him. If he attacked her in some way, she could smash the champagne flute and stab him with the stem. “Before you try anything funny, you should know that I’m pretty good at brawling.”
He shot her a sharp look. “Charming. First, you will not beat me in a fight. Not ever. And second, I promise you there’s no need for me to force myself on unenthusiastic women when there are many willing participants to choose from.”
“Is that so?” It was the only retort she could come up with.
“Do I need to remind you again that I’m your mentor?” That cold, commanding tone had entered his voice again. Gone was the whole soothing charade he’d plied her with earlier in the dining room. Obviously, persuasion was part of his hellhound skill set.
She loosed a sigh. “You don’t need to remind me.” As she climbed up the stairs after him, she ran her fingers over the brass railing. “This is all part of the hotel?”
“The upper floors of the Plaza are all private residences. A former hellhound purchased this apartment in the twenties for a pittance. The Plaza tried to reacquire it in the thirties but… well, let’s say we have our ways of getting what we want.”
They reached the landing at the top of the stairs, and a hallway stretched out in either direction. Kester crossed to a door, pushing it open and flicking on a light. “Bedroom one. The greenery
She gaped at him. This must be a dream. There was no way she could be making that much money. “Six million dollars a year,” she repeated. The amount was so far out of her frame of reference that it almost had no meaning. “What would I do with six million dollars a year?”
His cheek dimpled as he flashed a smile. “Oh, I’m sure you could find a worthy anti-gentrification cause to fund.”
“Uh-huh.” Definitely better than working for Rufus. She took a long sip of her red wine. She had no idea what kind it was, since Rufus’s club never got any more specific than red or white . “So why was this place empty? Who used to live here?”
“Another hellhound. But he’s moved on to other things.”
“And he has a scar. Just like ours?”
“Exactly.”
“How did you get yours?”
He reached down, twisting a silver cufflink. For the first time she saw a hint of vulnerability, when he didn’t meet her eyes. She liked this side of him better. He swallowed, still examining his cufflinks. “Everyone has their stories.”
Wow. That was amazingly…vague. “Right, but what is your—”
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Reaching under the table, he lifted up a silver bucket that held champagne and crystal flutes. He looked at her again. “It is your eighteenth birthday.”
Chapter 11
S he sniffed the champagne , waiting until Kester took a sip of his before she put the glass to her lips, just in case it was poisoned. It tasted fruity and crisp, like fall apples.
“This is delicious,” she said.
“It’s a 1928 Krug. One of my favorite vintages. I keep a few bottles around for special occasions.”
“Champagne from the ’20s. This glass probably cost more than my annual wages,” she mused.
“Things have changed for you.” He stood, a champagne flute in one hand and the bottle in the other. “Shall we see the rest of the apartment?”
“There’s more?”
“There’s the second floor.” He stepped out the door.
She rose, gripping her champagne as she followed him into a large foyer with a marble staircase. He pointed to a set of double doors. “The elevator, which should satisfy your paranoid tendencies in case you need to make a fast escape.” He flicked a wall switch. Above, a chandelier sparkled with a hundred tiny lights. “The bedrooms are on the upper level.”
As she climbed the stairs with him, her shoulders tensed. Maybe magic was real, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a pervert.
She glanced at him. If he attacked her in some way, she could smash the champagne flute and stab him with the stem. “Before you try anything funny, you should know that I’m pretty good at brawling.”
He shot her a sharp look. “Charming. First, you will not beat me in a fight. Not ever. And second, I promise you there’s no need for me to force myself on unenthusiastic women when there are many willing participants to choose from.”
“Is that so?” It was the only retort she could come up with.
“Do I need to remind you again that I’m your mentor?” That cold, commanding tone had entered his voice again. Gone was the whole soothing charade he’d plied her with earlier in the dining room. Obviously, persuasion was part of his hellhound skill set.
She loosed a sigh. “You don’t need to remind me.” As she climbed up the stairs after him, she ran her fingers over the brass railing. “This is all part of the hotel?”
“The upper floors of the Plaza are all private residences. A former hellhound purchased this apartment in the twenties for a pittance. The Plaza tried to reacquire it in the thirties but… well, let’s say we have our ways of getting what we want.”
They reached the landing at the top of the stairs, and a hallway stretched out in either direction. Kester crossed to a door, pushing it open and flicking on a light. “Bedroom one. The greenery
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